


Shrimp Heaven, NOW!

by thewoodthrush



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewoodthrush/pseuds/thewoodthrush
Summary: Why, if he was even just a regular shopper at this market, Jaskier wouldn’t be permanently stuck beside the honey-and-sunflowers stand, and then he wouldn’t get to be harassed by wasps all day, would he?  Those Michigander wasps were justsofriendly!  Why, they might even give Mrs. Karen Straight-Lady a run for her organic, GMO-free strawberries that she needs to buy fresh every goddamned day!  Because they were from Michigan!  The land of wasps and Karens!  Say yes to Michigan, indeed!Michigan!One hour left on his shift.(Jaskier and Geralt meet at a farmer's market.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 118





	Shrimp Heaven, NOW!

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the best [MBMBaM clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=paGretSydPQ) (and subsequent [Lin Manuel-Miranda song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtBAlJ0oNwk)) ever recorded. Pure, unadulterated crack. I’m not funny, I don’t know what I’m doing here.
> 
> (Also, I, your humble author, have nothing against the state of Michigan. Jaskier, overdramatic bastard that he is, finds it rather tedious.)
> 
> (But I will say it was really fucking fun to look up random Michigan facts to lightly mock. Sorry.)
> 
> (T-rated for language.)

There were worse summer gigs, Jaskier supposed, than cashiering at a farmer’s market in Lake Angelus, Michigan. Michigan’s smallest town. A whole 1.6 square miles, with only a mere 37.5% of it _underwater_ , thanks to said Lake Angelus. In Michigan. 

No, no, he could be doing much worse. If he were, say, among such hallowed ranks as that talentless hack Marx, invited to perform unimaginative covers of The Beatles’ entire _Abbey Road_ album – for the third day in a row, no less! – he wouldn’t be making a downright kingly $5.25 an hour plus tips. Tips! For a cashier! Makes absolutely perfect sense for this job, in this economy, in this 1.6-square-mile town. Ha! Who covets whom now, Valdo Marx of Lake Angelus, Michigan?

Why, if he was even just a regular shopper at this market, Jaskier wouldn’t be permanently stuck beside the honey-and-sunflowers stand, and then he wouldn’t get to be harassed by wasps all day, would he? Those Michigander wasps were just _so_ friendly! Why, they might even give Mrs. Karen Straight-Lady a run for her organic, GMO-free strawberries that she needs to buy fresh every goddamned day! Because they were from Michigan! The land of wasps and Karens! Say yes to Michigan, indeed!

Michigan!

One hour left on his shift. Jaskier took a deep breath of honey-scented air, blew it slowly out of his mouth, and plastered on a grin. “That’ll be $10.95, plus tax is - ”

Wow. Mrs. Karen Straight-Lady deeply, truly believed that her vocal cords were ineffective unless the very cells of her lips sloughed off as she spoke, didn’t she? And sweet god above, who used dark liner with light lipstick these days? “ _Ten_ ninety-fi – excuse me, they were _half_ that price last week, you’re absolutely wrong. What kind of racket is this place? Go find your manager, I’d like a word with him right now.”

Michigan law stated that minor assault with intent to harm was a misdemeanor sentence and up to 93 days in jail. No Netflix in jail. Can’t have that. “Of course. Triss is right across the lot at the customer service tent. I’ll just hold onto these criminally-priced fruits, shall I?”

“Hmph.” She stalked off, heels clacking on the pavement. As soon as she turned away, Jaskier dropped his head to his little stand with a thunk. Then did it again, just for good measure.

A wasp landed next to his nose. He stared right into its creepy little eyes, all its horrible little legs twitching as it crawled around. “You can kill me, right?” Jaskier said. “Like, if you and all your buddies just fucking went for it, I’d die, yeah?”

The wasp flew away.

“Traitor.” He closed his eyes. If the wasps wouldn’t do it for him, maybe the mid-July sunshine radiating off the parking lot could just roast him alive. Rare delicacy, humans. Surely Karen would enjoy biting off some other parts off him besides his head. Maybe _that_ would be worth her $10.95 plus tax. 

“Excuse me?”

Jaskier sprung upright with a yelp, blinking the sunspots out of his vision. “Sorry! So sorry, I – I, uh…”

He trailed off at the sight of a thick, muscled chest, pecs straining through a black t-shirt. Oh, _hello_. How soon could he get his hands around that waist, please? Right now would be great, thanks – 

The view broadened to wide, strong shoulders as Jaskier slowly craned his head back, only getting stuck for a moment on that _marble-chiseled_ jawline, oh my _god_ –

A pair of light, light brown eyes – god, almost _gold_ – crinkled in concern, matching the slight downward tilt of plush, perfect lips. Pale, perfect skin flushed pink in the heat, reaching up high, perfect cheekbones. Sunlight glowed off long, white – silver fox, silver fox, _silver fox_ – perfect hair, pulled back in haphazard braids and crowned with an adorable purple barrette. 

Jaskier blinked again. The absolute demigod, magicked up from the depths of his pathetic gay heart in his time of most desperate need, was still there. Admittedly, the hairstyle was a little odd, but he could work with that. God, the strands looked so fine, like goddamn silk when tangled in his hands – 

A bright giggle bubbled up from about three and a half feet below. “Daddy! You waked him up, that’s not nice!”

The man looked down, and Jaskier had to grab onto the edge of his stand at the tiny smile he gave the little girl beside him. She shared his light hair, but her braids were somehow even worse than his, a haphazard little tangle on her little head. She didn’t seem to care as she grinned up at him, her little hand proudly swallowed up in his. 

“Hmm. You’re right.” The man glanced back up, and Jaskier stopped breathing when the smile morphed to a wry smirk. “Sorry.”

Jaskier tried for a charming laugh. He really did. The man’s slightly alarmed frown at the goose-like monstrosity of sound that came out instead made Jaskier click his jaw shut, quickly regret every decision he’d ever made, then try again. “Not at all! No problem at all. Are you ready to check out? I can do that for you, let me just – nope, nope, you don’t have any things yet. Can’t check out without… things.”

Sweat trickled down Jaskier’s back as the man stared at him. Where, oh where were the murderous wasps or screaming suburban soccer moms when Jaskier actually needed them? 

“Is there a stand that sells blueberries yet?”

That _voice_. Rich, sweet baritone, with just a hint of raspiness that pathetic tenor Valdo Marx would kill for. Already, he could just hear that voice rumbling low, cutting off with a moan, saying his name –

“Uh, sorry,” Jaskier breathed, shaking his head too quickly. “Sorry, no, blueberries won’t be ripe yet for another few weeks. August, mid-August is when you’re looking for.”

“Hmm.” The man shrugged at the little girl. “Sorry, cub. Have to wait.”

She heaved a huge, dramatic sigh, flopping against his side. The man didn’t so much as budge. “Okay. Can I have honey sticks, though?”

“We’ll see.” The man picked her up in one smooth, easy motion, settling her on his hip. He nodded at Jaskier. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! No problem! Enjoy the market! I’ll see you in a few – weeks,” Jaskier called after him, but they’d already disappeared into the crowds. From a few yards away, the wrong chord opened _Hey Jude_ , and Jaskier wondered if strangling a musician with his own guitar strings still counted as assault if he really, really deserved it. At least it was a different album. _Fifty-five more minutes_. 

At thirty minutes and counting, however, as Jaskier finally gave horrible Karen her change, he heard a familiar voice cry out in elation. Jaskier looked over to see the little girl tearing away from her – father? He must be, how many family lines in goddamn Michigan could have that many beautiful genes? – and sprinting to the seafood stand a few tables down. 

She dropped to her knees in front of the fresh shrimp tank, hands and nose pressed flat to the glass. Then, she jumped to her feet, raised her little fist in the air, and shouted like a prophet on a mountaintop:

“Shrimp! Heaven! NOW!”

No. No, this couldn’t be. No living being could be this adorable, it simply wasn’t fair. Jaskier clapped both hands to his mouth, convulsing slightly as he tried to stifle his laughter. The little girl kept chanting “Shrimp! Heaven! NOW!”, the last word screamed to the heavens, as her father rushed up. What was left of the crowds were all laughing or staring in bemusement as he dropped to one knee beside her.

“Ciri – “

“ – Heaven! NOW!”

“Ciri, come on, it’s time to go – “

“No!” Ciri wriggled out of his grasp, little face scrunched up and turning red. “Shrimp! Heaven! NOW!”

“Ciri!”

Uh oh. Two much-younger sisters meant Jaskier knew exactly where this was going. Already, the man looked ready to seize his daughter and haul her bodily away before the tantrum exploded full-on. Ciri’s voice was only getting louder, though. 

“NO, Dad! Shrimp heaven _now!_ ”

“Ciri, please, we can’t keep doing this,” the man pleaded, glancing around at the gathering crowd of people. A few people had phones out, and by the man’s wide eyes and tense jaw, he was halfway to his own meltdown.

An idea popped into Jaskier’s brain like the first dandelion after the miserable Michigan winter. He jumped out of his lawn chair, shoving past Karen – “ _excuse_ me, I wasn’t done with you!” – and dashing over to the makeshift stage where Valdo was stuffing his microphone into a case, his guitar set on its stand.

“Give me your guitar,” Jaskier said in a rush. “Hurry up! I’ll bring it back.”

Valdo slowly raised his eyebrows, laughing incredulously. “Now why on earth would I even consider letting you, Jaskier Pankratz, my tasteless, talentless darling, within ten feet of the instrument of my life’s passion, my calling, my purpose on this earthly plane – ?”

“Oh, get fucked,” Jaskier snapped, then snatched the guitar off its stand and booked it across the lot towards Ciri and her father.

He elbowed through the circling crowd, Ciri’s cries piercing through chuckles and mutters. Tears were streaming down her face, voice starting to choke up with them. By the look on her father’s face, he was about to join her.

Well. Jaskier could fix that. 

“Ciri, my darling!” he exclaimed, and played a loud, only-slightly-out-of-tune C-chord. He followed with a jaunty series of plucked notes, and both Ciri and her father turned to him, wide-eyed. 

Well, in for a note, in for a song. “Shrimp heaven, you say?” he said, improvising a tune as he spoke. He bought more time with another chord, thinking fast. Nothing good rhymed with shrimp! “Shrimp, heaven?”

He tapped his foot along with the words, and suddenly, the song appeared to him like shrimp Jesus returning from the dead. Low, minor chords set a somber mood. “Shrimp heaven, when?” he crooned, looking mournfully to the stunned crowd. “Shrimp heaven, when?” 

He saw Valdo and Karen Straight-Lady exchange a look. Ciri’s sniffles stopped, however, and Jaskier winked at her as he continued. “Shrimp heaven, when?” he sang to her, dropping to a crouch. “Shrimp heaven, when?”

With a wide grin, he switched keys to a bright, cheery major, strumming louder and louder until he sang, “Shrimp heaven, NOW!”

Ciri shrieked with happiness, clapping her hands. Her father simply stared, mouth agape. “Shrimp heaven, now-ow!” Jaskier continued, rising up and bouncing to the beat. A few camera flashes went off, and he gave his best smile to the crowd. “Shrimp heaven, shrimp heaven now!”

Some brave, white soul in the crowd started clapping on the ones and threes. Good enough for Michigan. Jaskier turned to them and exclaimed, “Everybody, sing! Shrimp heaven, when? Shrimp heaven, NOW!”

Incredibly, they did. A little off-key, a little off-beat, but an entire chorus joined his serenade. “Shrimp heaven, when? Shrimp heaven, now-ow! Shrimp heaven, shrimp heaven now!”

Jaskier finished them off with an overdramatic riff, and the terrible clapping turned to roaring applause and cheers. He only had eyes for Ciri, though, jumping and dancing in place, her joyous evangelism complete. As the crowd dispersed, she latched onto his legs, squeezing him tight. “Thank you, shrimp-man!”

“You’re most welcome, my dear,” he said, laughing. “Did you like the song?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, I’ll play it for you whenever you come by. Maybe next time we’ll write one about blueberries, hm?” He looked to her father, then held back a squeak when he was suddenly standing much closer than before. Those almost-gold eyes transfixed onto his, and Jaskier forgot about shrimp altogether.

“Thank you,” the man breathed, shaking his head. “Just – thank you.”

Jaskier smiled softly. “It was no trouble. She’s a lovely girl, and I was proud to play for her.”

The smile he got in return would’ve weakened his knees to nothingness were they not being propped up by the boundless enthusiasm of a five-year-old. They almost did when the man scooped Ciri up, one hands brushing Jaskier’s leg as he detached her grip. 

“I’m Geralt,” the man said. “Should I call you shrimp-man, too?”

He chuckled. “Jaskier will do.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured. 

Oh, god. Say it again, say his name every day, say it softly and loudly and for the rest of their _lives_ –

“Would you like to come to dinner?”

Jaskier blinked. “Would I – sorry, what?”

“Would you like to come over for dinner?” Geralt said. He glanced at Ciri, humming and bouncing in his arms. Flatly, he added, “We’re having shrimp.”

They locked eyes, and Jaskier burst out laughing. Geralt’s deep chuckle set Ciri off, all three of them laughing together in the middle of the parking lot at the end of the farmer’s market in Lake Angelus, Michigan.

“Geralt,” Jaskier declared, strumming one last chord on the guitar, “that sounds like heaven.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a kudos/comment if you liked it! <3


End file.
